A/N: Hello loverlies (: Uh, just to clarify, I got a lot of reviews last chapter that were like "Where's the Phantom?" Guys, where do Christine and Raoul go after il Muto? Who follows them and sings the last part of their romance song? I rest my case.

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Erik couldn't help following them to the rooftop.He wasn't much angry with Christine at this point, for who could be angry with the girl? He was angry, however, of the man with her. The Vicomte de Changy was truly annoying to the depths of hell; the way he went crazy over Christine, the way he never failed to be in Erik's box, and the general feeling that he put out. And now, here he was, claiming that he would protect her. Erik couldn't stand it. This man. . . was infuriating.

And even so, Christine, his Christine, was proclaiming her love for this man. How could she? She loved him, not this insufferable excuse of a person. How dare he – they kissed. They kissed. The Vicomte picked her up and spun her, and Christine kissed him back. His Christine, was kissing this man. . . who most clearly was not him. The couple went inside, and Erik emerged from the shadows. Laying forgotten on the ground, a single red rose with a black satin ribbon tied around stem. His gift to Christine – gone from her memory.

Meg looked around the place quietly, slowly taking her hair down as she went. The Phantom's absence was strange, and she vaguely wondered where he had wandered off. Surely he hadn't gotten out of the theater, people would have seen him. His home was filled with what people would classify as junk. She could hardly take a step without fear of stepping on something. A whole basket of masks sat in one corner, he did certainly have quite the collection. Meg wondered what he could be hiding. She knew that very few people knew what lay behind, and her mother was one of them. But she would never ask her mother, and her mother would never tell her. She wondered if Christine knew. . .

Separate from the main area were three bookshelves, absolutely crammed with books and stray papers. She recognized few titles, but pulled one from the shelf anyway, riffling through it. A thin piece of paper fluttered to the ground, landing in the middle of Meg's second position feet. She looked down at it, and picked it up gingerly, placing the book back onto the shelf.

The piece of paper was yellowing and water stained. Still, there was light pencil writing, in a tiny cursive. Our Dearest O.G., Meg began to read, but quickly stopped. She knew these words, and quickly scanning the rest of the page, her heart raced. She had written this so many years ago. . . when she first met the man. This letter had been what brought her to him the first time. . . written then night Christine came. Oh, how things had changed over time. Were all of the other letters here as well?

She riffled through the rest of the bookshelf, finding even more of the letters from her past. He really had kept every single one of them. All of her childish requests were still present, and she couldn't help but smile at a few of them. She replaced them all in the spaces in which they were crammed, and continued looking around. She reminded herself why she was here – to set the Phantom's head back on straight. Keep him in line. Remind him that murdering fixes nothing.

Erik stormed back into his home, frustrated, hurt, confused, and in agony. He arrived furiously at his organ, plopping himself on the bench, not seeing the small dancer in his midst. "Damn you!" He cried out, speaking to no one, his hands balled into fists.

Meg peered around the corner of the shelf, trying not to be seen. He had returned, how she didn't know, she would have heard the water splashing if it had been that way. But of course, there was more than one route to enter this place. She tried to stay out of his line of sight until her full plan was complete in her mind. Would she simply burst out at him, in a screaming fury? Or would she gently come to him, and then argue that he wasn't helping his cause? She hadn't exactly decided when she did come out, but she was confidant in herself, she hoped.

"Monsieur. . . about tonight. . ."

Erik looked up from his misery, and was instantly upset with what he saw. The idiotic and far to bold ballet rat was down here, again. What her purpose was, he did not know nor care, but couldn't a girl leave someone to just sit and suffer? Why did she come down here again? Was their last encounter already wiped from her memory?

"God damn Little Giry. . . do you not learn?"

"My name is Marguerite," the rat replied fiercely. "And you have no right at the present moment to argue." Who was the girl to tell him what he did and did not have the right to do? She most clearly did not think much of her life, or she would not be here again.

"Killing Joseph Buquet has done and will do nothing to help your cause. If anything, it was purely idiotic of you. Now, the entire theater will be even more terrified or angry with you than they had been before. Our sales will go down, for word spreads quickly around this city, and once people learn of a hanging man during a ballet, they will refuse to come. . ."

"Shut up!" He yelled. This girl was infuriating.

"I'm not finished yet!" She yelled right back at him. "Christine is now terrified of you to the upmost degree. Did you want that?"

"How dare you speak of –"

But she interrupted him, her cheeks growing more scarlet by the minute, and she advanced to him, growing nearer with every word. "If anything, you have pushed her right into the Vicomte's arms. She will fear you for the rest of her life."

Meg paused, waiting for a response. He must have something to retort back with.

"You stupid, stupid little rat." The Phantom's voice grew louder and more viscous with every word he spoke, and soon, he was standing and advancing towards her. "How dare you come here, how dare you chide me, how dare YOU tell me of Christine." They were now face to face. The girl did not cower, as he expected her to. His voice was now low, and sneering. "You will never have the smarts of your mother. You will always be nothing but a ballet rat."

Meg looked at his haunting eyes, and in one swift movement brought her hand up, bringing it in contact with the left side of his face. She was shocked with herself, she had just smacked the Phantom of the Opera. . . Her cheeks grew to a bright crimson, and her handprint was growing red on his face.

Erik was taken by surprise at how the girl acted. Never had anyone defied him like this. Well, apart from Christine, when she ripped his mask off. . . But Christine was different. Christine was his angel, and Marguerite. . . was nothing but a rat. A good for nothing ballet rat. God, why was she here? Why did she always interfere?

"Marguerite, you stupid, foolish girl." He snarled at her, and she somewhat jumped back. It served the girl right.

Meg tried not to be afraid of him, she truly did, but for one of the first times in her life, she cursed her rashness. Now she had an angry and what seemed like depressed Phantom on her hands. . . But how dare he call her stupid? How dare he call her foolish? Her act may be foolish, but foolish she was not.

"Monsieur. . . I. . . I'm sorry. . . but really. . . you shouldn't have killed him. . ."

"My matters are of no concern to you." He said icily.

Meg decided that now would be a good time to leave. She slowly walked away, picking up her skirts and wading through the water. Maybe he was right. . . maybe she was foolish.

She returned back to the hustle and bustle of the regular theater, which was still in utter chaos. Sounds of her hand against flesh rang through her ears, and it was causing her insanity. She walked into the ballet dormitories, walking quietly to her bed in the back. The absence of Buquet was evident, and the entire room seemed to be in a state of silence. Girls all around were trying to busy themselves; brushing and braiding, fidgeting with their own fingers, rearranging practice dresses, or just simply staring in oblivion. She had never seen it quite like this.

One of the girls looked at her. "Meg," she started, looking concerned, "why do you still have your costume on?"

Meg looked down almost dumbly, and sure enough, she still had on the green and white costume with flowing skirts and tight bodice. The costume mistresses would murder her. "I must have forgotten. . . in the ruckus and all. . ." she lied.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you can give it back tomorrow. Do you think we'll rehearse?"

Meg shrugged a bit. She felt like she was in a trance of sorts.

Joseph Buquet was dead.

Meg Giry had slapped the Phantom of the Opera.

The world was out of sorts.

A/N: My school is doing Phantom of the Opera next year for fall musical. Oh my goodness. . . Review please?